


slow burn

by plant_emo



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25573309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plant_emo/pseuds/plant_emo
Summary: a small coffee shop slow burn; frerard. gee won’t get introduced for the first couple chapters. that’s all i have at the moment
Relationships: frerard - Relationship





	slow burn

I take a breath of the cool, unusually salty air. Now, believe me, I'm no expert in the sodium levels of seawater. But it seems significantly saltier today. I probably have a good idea of it, too. Just a couple minutes ago, a wave hit the rocks and some water just so happened to hit my tongue when I was yawning. I'm unlucky, I know it.   
I've been walking for maybe 12 minutes now. I'm not sure. It usually only takes me ten, and I'm practically a block away from the coffee shop that my cousin told me to check out. She knows I love books, and she mentioned the fact when she suggested the shop, but I'm not sure why.  
About two minutes more of walking, and I reach it. The shop itself almost looks like an artist was drawing a detailed sketch of a line of shops, and realized at the second to last shop that there wasn't enough room to add in the cafe. It's all squeezed in. The windows are thin and the brick exterior almost looks squished. It's titled The Vahnilla Beane.  
I open the door and slowly walk in, looking around. A bell rings and the barista gives me a friendly wave. I nod back to her and then look around the shop. Just like the outside, the inside is cluttered. But instead of bricks, tabled are covered in books, as are the walls, and countless rows of shelves that lead back further than you would think. Dusty light streaming through dusty windows lights up the room, sharing its duty with a few oil lamps scattered around the room. Everyone inside seems to be wearing brown and beige, but they strangely look good. I stand out, dressed in blue jeans and a white t-shirt. Just a regular coffee shop, eh?  
I stuff my hands in the pockets of the jacket that hangs down from my slumped shoulders as I walk towards the counter, trying to fit in with the posture that the regulars seemingly share. Checking out the menu, I notice that the owners of the shop all seem to have chosen strange names for their drinks and pastries. A drink listed as Dante's Poison, described in small text as a smoothie made of mangoes, bananas, and peaches. Another one called Virgil's Glass, a smoothie of blueberries and raspberries. I'm not one for smoothies. I order their signature drink, cleverly misspelled as The Vahnilla Beane.  
The barista, not wearing a nametag, starts brewing it after I pay. I look around again, still taking in the strangeness of this cafe that seems like it's from 1924, a bar where jazz plays and the working man can drink illegal alcohol. Oh, to be one of those people playing jazz in an underground bar. Getting paid in exposure and applause. That doesn't sound too much different than what I'm doing at the moment.  
She calls out the name of the drink I ordered; I must have spent more time than I thought just thinking. I take it from her, along with my receipt, and thank her. I turn away to find a table to sit at.  
"Wait!" She says.  
I pivot and face her, "Yes?"  
"Your hair looks nice." She nods to herself, looking me over. "Have you been here before?"  
I shake my head, "That would be a no. And thank you. I just dyed it black again after it was blonde. It's a long story, involving alcohol." I laugh and then realize that she doesn't need to know that. "Sorry."  
"What for?"  
"Gushing."  
"It's completely alright. What's your name?"   
"Frank," I say and hold out my hand to her, shaking it. I notice how soft her dark skin is. She must use lotion. "Your hair is nice too. I could never figure out how to braid a girl's hair like that."  
"It takes practice." She laughs, "Thank you. I'm Aiyana. I hope to see you here more often; you're fun to talk to."  
I nod and wave her off, going to one of the several empty tables. I take a sip of the drink while picking up a book from the windowsill. From context, I'm sure they're free to read. This one in particular is called London Triptych. According to the back, it's a story of 3 men, all in different periods, exploring their sexualities. Sounds decent enough. I've been there before. I open to the first page and start reading. I've nowhere to be.   
I check the time, about five chapters in. Nearly time to go job hunting. At the moment, I'm living off the money I had saved up from teaching little kids how to play guitar and bass when I was a teenager. It's times like these when I wish I had a car. I'm a bit too poor to take the bus. Most of my exercise comes from practically walking across Minneapolis every day.  
I finish my drink and toss it in the bin. I make a note of what page I'm on in the book and then exit the shop. The door rings when I exit and the barista waves me goodbye. I wave back.  
The air is still warming up, I pull my jacket around me a little closer, shivering. When I was younger, around six years old, I caught bronchitis. I couldn't shake it for months. Thanks to that incident, I have a bit of a smaller frame. That's a lie. I'm tiny. Sometimes I can feel my bones being crushed when my mom hugs me. She's not even very strong, either.  
Cool mist stings my face, I look over to the right, at the ocean. I don't like Minneapolis too much. In the part of town where I live, everything is gray. The air, the shops, the cars. I swear I once spotted someone with gray skin.  
I look around the streets once I turn away from the coast, attempting to find a shop I could work for now. I got out of college last month, with a degree in Applied Management. Not that it was my choice. That's not really what I want to do. Instead of figuring out how to get some company out of a racism or homophobia scandal, I'd rather get hired in the music category. I'd love to work at a studio, mixing songs for bands that have yet to be discovered, but that doesn't provide the steady paycheck that I need right now.  
I glance at a building, taller than the rest. Silver, what must be hundreds of windows lining the outside of it. A smaller logo than other buildings sport, reading Securian. Sounds decent enough. I cross the street at a stoplight, walking into the building. My laptop bag in hand, I walk up to the front desk.   
"Hi! How may I help you?" A lady asks, too bright for my liking. Those big eyes just don't look right. Almost like there's no emotion behind them. Her smile is too... Big. That's the word.  
"Hi! I was wondering if you have any jobs open?" I ask, and she does some quick typing on a clanky keyboard. A bit of scrolling.  
"What field do you work in?" She asks, looking over at me.  
"Applied Management."  
She does some more clicky typing and then nods, "Yes, we do have a job open. I can email you the details if you'd like."  
"That would be great." I smile at her, spelling out my email for her. She tells me that I can set the interview up over email. I thank her and exit the building. I repeat this process five more times.

By the end of the day, my calves are aching. I'm craving a good cup of coffee from that one shop I went to earlier in the morning, but sadly, it isn't in my budget. So I walk into the grayish building, unlocking the gate with my card. It beeps, swinging open for me. A minute in the elevator, then I walk into my little apartment. I don't take the time to get a snack, I just sit down on the floor next to my door.  
I take my laptop out of my bag and begin copy and pasting emails to various companies. I change the dates I'm available for each, along with the company names. One by one, I hit send, and one by one, they reply back with dates for interviews. I copy and paste a reply that's a drawn-out version of That works for me! Thank you for your time. Maybe I should paint the walls in my apartment. I can't stand the gray.

I wake up the next morning, hungry. I was hungry last night, too. There's food in the pantry, yes, but I'm saving it for dinner. I'm almost lucky that I majored in business. They taught me how to budget for big companies. My one square foot apartment isn't exactly a big company, but it's similar enough. Food, rent, utilities.  
I pull on a white button-up and a brown sports jacket, buttoning it to the next to top button, throwing on a tie as well because why the hell not. I'm still not sure what to wear to interviews. Some grayish or beige slacks, whatever floats your boat. Dress shoes, too. I'm gonna regret that on the walk to get coffee. I can already feel my little toe rubbing against the fabric of the shoe. But I'm not going to wear tennis shoes to an interview. I'd get sent out the door faster than I could hand them my resume.  
I exit the building, putting on some dark sunglasses on my way out. Yesterday was unusually cold, but today I can feel the sun beating down on me harder than I can remember. Lucky me, dressed in layers of polyester. I'm already practically sweating.  
The small cafe looks the same as it did yesterday, aside from a different little message on the chalkboard, written in swoopy cursive. Free ice cold water! For once, I'm lucky, and I'm not being sarcastic when I say it.  
I walk into the shop, giving a small wave to the girl I saw studying the other day. Long hair that curls at the end. An oversized brownish coat. It looks soft. She smiles back at me and nods, tapping the cover of the book that she's reading. Romeo Blue. I smile.  
"One glass of cold water, please." I smile at the barista, the same girl from yesterday. I think her name was Aiyana. Her hair is in a complicated looking updo today. "And, a cup of coffee, whichever way you drink it."  
"With honey?" She gives me a strange look. "You better have a sweet tooth. Are you gonna be one of our regulars?"  
I shrug, looking around. "I hope. I might not be able to afford it. Hence, the... uh... fancy clothes. I blanked on the word there. I have an interview today."  
"Who are you gonna work for?" She asks and then tells me the price, I pay her in cash.  
"If it goes right, Securian."  
"Ooh, tough draw. Coffees half off." She smiles and gives me some cash before turning around to make my drink.  
"Thank you." I smile, "Might be able to get a cab."  
"Well, good luck with that, Frank." She smiles, "Major in communications?"  
"Almost. Applied Management, not like I wanted to, but what's done is done."  
"Damn, you do not have a fun life ahead of you!" She furrows her brows, "Sorry. Probably shouldn't have said that."  
"No, no, you're right. But musicians don't exactly get stable paychecks."  
"Good point. What book were you reading yesterday?" She asks, handing my coffee to me, along with the water I asked for.  
"London Triptych."  
"Ah, so you swing that way?"  
"Yeah, wait how did you know?" I ask, moving closer to her. I didn't realize that I said yes until the word was out.  
"Most straight guys don't really like reading those types of books. You single?"  
I nod, "Sadly."  
"I'll keep an eye out for someone you might like." The bell rings.  
"I'll go. Thank you." I smile at her before taking my two drinks and walking back to the table I was at yesterday. Picking up the book, turning it to the page I was at yesterday. I resume reading.  
I read another five chapters, drinking the water while I wait for the coffee to cool. As soon as it does, I take some change out of my pocket. The Securian building is quite a long walk in hot weather, and I might impress my potential future manager by arriving early.  
I take another sip from my coffee. Honey doesn't taste so good with coffee. I finish it anyways, leaning against a light pole and waiting for a cab to drive up. Soon enough, one does, I hop inside. 

A short cab ride later, I step into the sun and almost immediately step back out. The building is so tall it blocks out the sun, which is high in the sky at the moment. I check the cheap watch so tight around my wrist that it's pinching me; I'm fifteen minutes early.   
I walk inside the building and greet the same lady that I met the other day. Now that there's a chance I'll be greeting her every day, I glance down at the nametag on the desk. Miss. Pruess.  
"Hi. Which floor is... Mr. Allen on?" I politely smile at her. I doubt she hasn't noticed the few tattoos scattered over my hands, but I also doubt that she's noticed the scorpion covered with foundation. They say not to judge a book by its cover, or a person by how punk rock they look, but people do anyway.   
"Yes, Mr. Iero! You came in yesterday, didn't you?" She smiles a little too friendly at me.  
"I did. I appreciate how you were able to set up an interview so soon, I know that sometimes things are hectic, and it meant a lot that you found time for me." I didn't mean a single word of that. I'm sure that the most interesting Mr. Allen has going on today, besides my interview, is a game of darts after he gets off the clock.  
"Anyways, Mr. Allen is on floor number six. Once you get out of the elevator, take a right. He will be in the Conference room."  
I turn on my heel and thank her, phonily smiling, but not fake enough that she would notice.   
There's no one in the elevator, no one in the hallway to the right. I walk into the room and see Mr. Allen. He's a man, maybe in his forties, with pale blond hair. It hangs over his forehead, not in a good way. A white and salmon striped button-up shirt hangs off of his slumped shoulders, and he forgot to shave this morning. I have to force myself to smile as I shake his hand. I almost want to tank this interview on purpose just so I don't have to work with this mess. Nonetheless, I need to pay my bills, so I hand him my resume and he looks over it before beginning the interview. I almost know that he was eating a sloppy joe before this.

One by one, over the next six days, I'm told the same words. At the third interview, I didn't even bother to cover up my scorpion tattoo, nor at the fourth, fifth, or sixth. But whether or not that mattered, I'm rejected from each one. Piss off.

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah. updates will be minimal


End file.
